


With a Bang

by 1yellowfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1yellowfish/pseuds/1yellowfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers "A Study in Pink"  Sherlock might well be dying, what are his last thoughts? What is important to him? Will he understand John's plea of "Please God, don't let me die"? Or is he more bothered about being wrong? (I erred on the side of caution with the rating) Written for the lovely Hatter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Bang

With a Bang

Thus it ends with a bang and not the whimper he’d been expecting. Strange the killer should change his method so suddenly. He didn’t actually think the man would change just because he’d managed to lure him here.

He was frozen. Stuck without a breath in an instant but he couldn’t feel it. He should be able to feel it, shouldn’t he? His eyes widened slightly. He was going to die!

He was going to die.

Mycroft would have to help Mummy, he’d have to stand at his grave and bolster her while attempting to look grieved instead of angry. He would be so angry.

He would love to deduce that face, how much would be barely suppressed rage and how much would be genuine grief. His brother tried so hard to let go of sentiment but he was much guiltier of it than Sherlock had ever been.

He didn’t want to look, he must be bleeding. The blood would have ruined his coat. What a strange thought. Shouldn’t he be more worried about dying than the state of his coat? Odd. Although it did ruin his plans to be buried in it. Troublesome. He wanted to make observations but he feared he was becoming shocky.

Was it strange he hadn’t looked away from his hand with the tablet in it? He had toyed with the idea that the little white pill might be his end, honestly he doubted it but the thrill, the adrenalin, it was worth it. Well, it had been worth it until a bullet changed everything.

A bullet.

Oh!

Oh.

He was going to die.

He was going to die. He was surprised at how much he rebelled against the idea. He didn’t want to die. He really, really didn’t want to die.

He thought that he understood John’s words now, he almost uttered them himself but he reminded himself he didn’t believe in a god, in any god. He wasn’t even in a bed for a dramatic death bed confession; it would be amusing if it wasn’t so irritating.

He supposed he ought to look at his killer now. Isn’t that what dying people did, look in askance at the person who killed them? He hoped his body would make an interesting case. Maybe John would solve this case after all. He’d left enough clues. John might even discover his body. He managed to pull his eyes from his hand and the little white pill.

He didn’t see his killer.

Where was his killer?

How had he moved so quickly?

No, he couldn’t have moved so quickly.

How much time had passed? Barely two seconds.

His eyes darted and found his killer.

His killer was dying. That’s not right.

He’d been shot hadn’t he? So why was his killer on the floor?

A quick glance surprised him again, he wasn’t bleeding. His coat wasn’t ruined! A smile quirked his lips. No, wrong. He’s supposed to be glad about not dying. It was more convenient. He would miss seeing Mycroft’s face, but no, that’s wrong too.  The dead don’t see. Perhaps he cold fake his own death at some point, he filed it away for further thought.

The cabbie was dying. He needed answers. Answers. Who had shot the cabbie? Irrelevant. Why did he shoot Sherlock? Wrong, he didn’t. Ah. Yes. Who?

Who were you working for? Who spent all this time trying to play with Sherlock? Who would pay someone to commit these crimes?

The staggered out “Mooor-iiii-ar-ty” made him erupt with triumph for a moment. And then the blasted killer died. How dare he die! Sherlock still had questions.

Where did the shot come from? Well he could figure that without the dead man’s input. He took a moment and located the hole in the glass. The shot was impressive.

Then he didn’t have any more time to think. Lestrade’s people were here, removing him from the scene. Time seemed to rush where before it hadn’t seemed to pass at all. He was outside. He was being bothered by paramedics. He was being pestered by Lestrade himself. Lestrade was being dull. It would be easy enough to figure out the killer. Army trained, back from war recently, good shot not to mention … John’s face jumped out at him from behind the caution tape.

Oh.

OH! He clutched at the stupid orange blanked and begged off. Quickly he found himself falling in to step beside his new flatmate.

His flatmate who’d just killed someone for him.

John was fascinating.

Then Mycroft was there. He was put out at how unruffled the government man was. No he didn’t want to be there anymore, the scene had lost its luster. He managed to say something clever and John giggled.

John giggled, and Sherlock beamed. His flatmate was fascinating.

Soon they would be home. Home with John. He smiled, he liked that plan.

He turned dramatically his coat swirling out behind him with a flair. Home with John and his un marred coat. It was a good day.


End file.
